A More Perfect Union
by DeathscytheVII
Summary: 1936 Kaiserreich : America is divided and teetering on the brink of a Civil War as multiple parties seek to guide their country into the 20th century


**Washington D.C**  
January 1, 1936

A cold front had swept in from the north this winter, making the ride from New York all the more bumpy as the twin engine Boeing landed with a thud on the airport tarmac. Ground crews braved the snows and frozen rains to receive the passenger plane, guiding it to the airport where they unloading the luggage and wheeling the stairway for passengers to disembark. To the eyes of Brigadier General Omar Bradley, the precision of the crews was a comforting sight, reminding him of his days back in the posting with the 14th Infantry at New Mexico. He had spent the last few years in West Point, teaching the next crop of army officers while silently counting down the days to his sabbatical.

As he descended from the plane, Bradley took the opportunity to wave goodbye to his fellow passengers, a German businessman who was touring his factories in New York along with a political journalist from Chicago. Though their conversation about the upcoming election was heated, Bradley wisely let the two men argue with him as an erstwhile spectator, unwilling at least to take a side or to give the Chicago newspaperman any quotes.

"General Bradley?" A private saluted as Bradley exited the plane, "Welcome to Washington D.C, I'm to escort you to the War Department." The man gestured towards a military jeep waiting for him, engine still warm and idling.

"Thank you private." Bradley returned the salute, throwing on his dress coat "Lead on."

The drive across the Potomac and into Washington itself was relaxing and Bradley scanned past the windows of his armored jeep to see the familiar silhouette of the Capitol Dome and Washington Monument. Both powerful symbols of the republic and the ideals that founders had founded his country upon, ideals now that many claimed were under attack by the political opponents. As his jeep proceeded into the city, Bradley noted with interest the various military checkpoints and blockades that littered the streets, garrison units brought in to keep order. Although their presence was reassuring, it saddened Bradley to see that it had come down to this, relying on the military to keep even a modicum of civility and order in the nation's capital. Their presence too, also reflected a reality that was all too deadly.

Ever since the Great Depression had struck America, rendering tens of millions to poverty and destitution, a great wave of political radicalism had hit America like a raging storm. Syndicalists in the Steel Belt, taking heart from the revolutions in Britain and France, started gathering themselves into General Defense Unions, forming a formidable political coalition known as the SPA. Their main goal nothing less to repeat the socialist experiment here in America, as it did in Russia, Britain and France. To destroy the capitalists and give the power and wealth back to the people.

While in the Deep South, Huey Long, the Kingfish, founded his own political movement, one that exploited the economic frustrations and resentments of the Southern voters into a populism mixed in with a healthy distrust of the federal government. Long made himself a cult of personality that essentially allowed him to dominate the state of Louisiana, turning it into a virtual dictatorship as he sacked political rivals, putting his own yes-men into key government positions, all the while touting an egalitarian message to the masses, that government would redistribute the wealth to the working class while proclaiming a democracy would be for the righteous, not the corrupt and radical.

In short, America was a powder keg, one that was dangerously close to being set off by a spark.

Even as they passed the checkpoints, Bradley could make out the distinct chants of the Syndicalist mobs that protested outside the White House lawn. Their cries and slogans written clearly on their signs. 'Break the Chains!', while the America Firsters had gathered another crowd, proclaiming 'Every Man a King'. Between them in seemingly no man's land, were the poor soldiers of the Washington Garrison, doing their best to keep order.

"Never seen anything like it sir." The private spoke with a soft Louisiana twinge. "Damn Syndies trying to make life a living hell for all of us."

The private's words took Bradley out of his brief reverie,but heck, it was a long drive, he may as well have a chat.

"Their politics don't agree with you I'd take it." He offered non-committally, noticing that the man had not commented on the Firsters in that bunch.

"My brother-in-law manages a few of the factories in Chicago sir," The private nodded wearily, "Tells me the Syndies are even more up and about there. Unions taking over the assembly lines and throwing out their bosses, beating their managers. Some even lynching them in the streets. It's barbaric sir."

"Sad, I have heard the stories myself." Bradley murmured. Tensions were indeed rising in the Steel Belt, with outspoken critics of the socialist party such as Ford hiring armys of strikebreakers, rumors too of him padding the pockets of the local police precincts to keep his factories under constant surveillance. All to often the work days ended with multiple brawls and fisticuffs as both sides were unwilling to concede an inch to settle their differences.

"As far as I'm concerned sir, me and my folk just want the damned thing sorted out. No need to shoot someone just 'cause you disagree."

Bradley nodded at the statement.

"On that, I think we're very much in agreement. That's a very enlightened view you have there private, considering the climate." Bradley smiled, finding that he was rather enjoying the conversation. Sadly, not enough men shared that view.

"Been in the army since '17 sir. Volunteered over in Russia, fought at Petrograd." The private explained as he turned the corner towards the War Department. "Nothing sadder than seeing a bunch of kids gun down each other like damned fools just 'cause a bunch of old fat cats in suits can't agree which end of the pig makes the mess, pardon my language sir."

"No, you've hit the nail on the head private. I pray nothing comes of it." The scars from the Civil War were still fresh in the nation's consciousness. To have another one go off again, this time with modern weaponry such as machine guns, airplanes and tanks….

"Me too sir, me too." the Private smiled as he rounded a corner with the jeep. "Ah, the War Department's up ahead sir. I'll pull in for you."

The jeep had navigated its way past the roadblocks and military checkpoints to stop just at the state building where the army offices were. Bradley noticed that already, half a dozen trained eyes from the sentries guarding the facility had their eyes on them, and a US marine officer on guard had already approached the jeep, opening the door for him.

"Thank you private, a fine drive, a fine drive indeed, but an even better conversation. I wish you and your family the best." Bradley smiled, breaking protocol and extending his hand to the man. He didn't know why, perhaps it came with commanding his soldiers, but a part of him could not help but feel that this would possibly be the last time they would meet.

"Thank you sir," the private shook the general's hand. "And god be with you too."

* * *

**New York City, New York**

"BREAK THE CHAINS! BREAK THE CHAINS!"

It was a sea of picket signs and red, stemmed only by a thin blue line of police officers that cordoned the street off. The protesters were relentless however, hurling insults and oaths at the officers while pushing their luck and physically pressing against the barricade, shaking it like a fragile reed in the wind, it bent but didn't break.

The protesters were under strict instructions to keep it from descending into violence, lord knew that there were more than a fair share of America Firsters in the police force that wanted the excuse to come off their leashes and lash out at the protesters with their billy clubs, or worse. All it took would be one stupid kid or jittery policeman and the whole thing could end in a massacre, not unlike the crowds of striking workers he had seen in his time at Petrograd.

The chants at the picket lines were particularly loud as General Motors announced another set of layoffs from their main factories in the city. He had received reports from the soup kitchens of the city that they were overflowing to the brim with the hungry and destitute as more men, women and children waiting for their share while the Wall Street fat cats were sipping their champagne and caviar.

Disgusted by the state of affairs, John 'Jack' Reed, Senator of Illinois, turned back to the meeting at hand shutting the window of his office that overlooked the protests. It was hard to fathom the journey he took since covering the Bolsheviks in Russia as journalist, now he was at the forefront of a movement that was to transform the entire country for the better, hopefully with better results than the Soviets.

"Jack, we need to formally organize protection if we are to have a chance. We have to have the means to defend ourselves if the Feds decide to declare the strike illegal." Steve Nelson, one of the main bosses in the Socialist Party of America, said bluntly. Since becoming the head of the SPA, Nelson had been one to informally slide into Reed's inner circle, handling all his security detail concerns. With the rapid expansion of the party throughout the Steel belt, his duties evolved and expanded.

There was to be a plan for a general nation-wide strike next year. The process of coordinating all the union leaders at hand and keeping the details under wraps. Reed had a sneaking suspicion that more than one of his leaders were being tracked and tailed by the FBI under Hoover, while his own assassination attempts and attacks on his persons were conveniently ignored despite being a US Senator. His own bodyguard was a private security detail, provided for by the union leaders. Even his most ardent opponents in the Syndicalist faction saw the tremendous damage it would do to their cause in America if he were to fall to an assassin's bullet.

The second gentleman in the room, Upton Sinclair, another organizer of Labor who led his own bloc in the SPA, nodded in agreement.

"The fuzz are under the influence of the AFP and the Capitalists, you know that Jack." Nelson pressed. "We will do everything to obey the letter of the law, but you know the Feds won't honor it. They'll send out the cavalry to trample our folks just like they did before, they will do it again mark my words." He slammed the table with his fist in frustration to underline his point. "Our boys are dying out there without the means to defend themselves."

Reed however, shook his head.

"Our boys know what they are fighting for. We are not going to seize the means of production through violence, but through brotherhood and solidarity. We are not the Bolsheviks in Russia gentlemen, we are all of us Americans. We will do this the American way, the democratic way."

Unlike Russia, Britain and France, America was perhaps the one place where he hoped that the transition could be made peacefully. They had the democratic tradition after all.

"Believe me Jack, I don't want this fight, but make no mistake this is going to be a fight. I've seen what they did to the socialists and Bolsheviks in Russia, I'd rather give us a means to protect ourselves than let us be dragged and shot in the streets."

Upton pressed the issue, slamming his hand emphatically on the table.

"This will mainly be a defensive measure. No one wants to see anyone get hurt, but it's a reality. I'll have you know even now my boys in the Philadelphia Defense Unions are stockpiling arms in their homes. A fight's coming Jack, whether you want it or not. But with your blessing, many more lives can be safeguarded. I'm not so much concerned for our boys, but for the women and children that will undoubtedly be caught up in this."

Reed shuffled uncomfortably at the thought, unthinkable. American policemen gunning down women and children in the streets, the same way the Russians did their own workers in Petrograd. But he knew that Upton was telling the truth. Even without his blessings the Unions were arming themselves, creating an 'Iron Pipeline' of firearms that went missing or 'defective' from the munitions factories. People sneaking home a magazine one day, a gun barrel the next, while those with experience in gangs had gone as far as to stage distraction get away cars to lure police away from the warehouses so their rifles and ammunition can be pilfered, lost in the stream of goods that made up a city.

"Very well gentlemen." Reed relented. "Our GDUs are to arm themselves up as units. If the Federal government is not willing to do its duty to defend its citizens, we may as well step in. Hoover may cause up a stink but we know our governors in the Steel Belt have our backs."

Sinclair breathed a grateful sigh of relief. "Thank you Jack, leave the rest to me. The governors and mayors are on your side. They see the rot, the hypocrisy of the Capitalists and Long. We'll get through this all right."

"There are more than a few specialists and volunteers from abroad with combat experience that can help us. More than a few veterans in our ranks who were part of the bonus army. They can shape the lads up."

There existed, as ever, a delicate balance of power between the Police, the National Guard of the States and the Federal Army. With the American First Party showing no qualms about leveraging their connections in the police against them, they may as well prepare.

"I pray to god it doesn't come to a fight Sinclair, but you are right. We can't let our brothers and sisters be at risk of being arrested and held without charge."

"We won't. And our job now is to ensure that the House and Senate do what is best for the country. You've heard haven't you Jack? They're reintroducing the Wagner-Garner Act to deal with the depression." Nelson said, glad to steer the conversation away from violent revolution to more political matters.

"Establishment putting band aids on a festering wound, no doubt filed with free handouts to the Corporations and Capitalists rather than the people who actually need it." Sinclair said disdainfully. "It won't make it pass the house, we can see to it."

Reed nodded, he and his presidential team had already run up a tally of the votes. With the Steel Belt, the Cities of the Midwest and New York and Pennsylvania, he was sure he had the electoral votes needed to ascend the White House.

He had seen the fruits of the revolution blossom in Britain and France. He had seen the ideals of syndicalism finally bring peace and equality to his brothers and sisters across the pond and he had seen the lengths the brutal Autocrats and Capitalists would go to stifle the human spirit in Russia and Germany. No, he would not fail here. He couldn't. This was not just about the distribution of wealth and the working class' place in society. It was about the future progression of mankind. _L'Internationale, Sera le genre humain. _After all.

And America, the shining beacon of hope and democracy, the first in the family of nations to have stood up against tyranny and monarchy, that had proclaimed all men were created equal, with it's bustling energies and factories, would take it's rightful place at the forefront of uniting the human race in a common brotherhood.

Once they had the votes of course.

* * *

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

"We'll sink it! We'll completely sink it I swear to god." Senator Huey Long, the "KingFish" was in a particularly gutsy mood as he saw the headlines of the paper. "They're running scared! We'll rock the boat for those privilege seekers and profiteers until they have nothing left!"

Governor Kelly Allen, his close friend and confidant, and groomed successor to the governorship of Louisiana, smiled. He had known Huey for a long time and he recognized the predatory glare in his eyes, the chance to pounce on an opponent who showed weakness in the political arena. This was the same man who single handled forced through infrastructure and education reform in Louisiana by his sheer will, walking unannounced into the legislature and corralled the votes in person. Even the Federalists and Corporatists had to play to his tune if they wanted to operate within his state, and Allen remembered fondly the memory of one of forcing one of the oil barons to pay for adverts in Long's newspapers before being awarded a contract for his company. It was humble pie well served.

And the people of Louisiana loved Huey for it. To them, he was the man who stood up against the corrupt incompetents in Washington. The man who singlehandedly diverted funding to the state for their newest highways, libraries and airports. Many schoolchildren had Huey to thank for the free textbook program and modern schools that the state had. Perhaps a long overdue correction from when his friend was destitute himself, trying to make ends meet as a school boy who couldn't even buy himself a book.

At the end of the day, the people loved and trusted him. He was someone who would stand up for the common man, and unlike the democrats and socialists who claimed to do the same thing, he was willing to follow through on his promises.

And with that iron will, Huey had replicated his strategy in Louisiana with the American South, almost annointing governors and congressman to their seats by decree. If they were against Huey Long, his friends at the local and state level, along with the papers, would make it impossible for any opposition to operate against him. The people didn't mind, in fact, they were empowered. Finally, someone who could take charge of government and make it work for them! One day, the nation would realize it, and it would give them the keys to the White House

"You think it won't make a difference Huey?"

"It's far from enough to treat the rot in the system." Long scoffed. This 'Garner-Wagner' act is a band-aid, nothing more. By god, give me the house for one day, I'll pass more legislation than those buffoons could do in a year."

Allen kept quiet even as Long tried to run the numbers. It was true that the AFP had built a formidable coalition of Southern Senators and Congressmen, but would they be enough numbers to sway the house? Especially with the SPA, who were, to put it mildly, outright hostile to them.

"Garner seems to think it has a chance this time. President Hoover has vowed to not veto it."

"Prolonging the death of a sick man." Long replied confidently. "Their time is ending and they know it. 65% of the people own less than 5% of the wealth. This can't last forever. I'm surprised the politicians haven't robbed our graveyards yet."

Democrats and Republicans were both complicit in this, as far as he was concerned. They ignored the rot and have abandoned the common people, but Long knew he could take advantage of that. He channeled their anger into action in Louisiana, built the state from a backwater to one of the most modern and richest in the union.

"In any case, our boys in the house know what to do, they don't need my instruction. We'll play their game for now, see if we can sneak in a little something for our efforts. Charles is running in New Jersey isn't he?"

Allen nodded. Charles Lindbergh, the hero pilot who flew across the Atlantic for the first time, was one of the more moderate and fairer voices in the party. A good counter balance to Huey's sometimes more bombastic nature, but he was a good man as well.

"We'll make sure our papers there make special mention of him, as well as that monkey Hoover." Long smiled, having perfected his political machinery in Louisiana, it was satisfying seeing it applied successfully across the south and eastern states.

"Hoover," Long said ardently, pointing at the picture in the paper. "We must always target the boss. Cuss out the boss, and you get 40% of the vote against him already, then you hustle out the in-betweeners." That strategy, applied nationwide, could have delivered him the White House by now, if it wasn't for that socialist Reed. God damn him.

"We'll want as many states as we can for November." Long said solemnly. "We cannot afford to fail."

There were good people in America out there suffering, people who deserved a fair shake without interference from the politicians and corporations. To these true Americans, he would be as kind and gentle as a lamb, but to those that exploited and profited off them? By god, he would ram his boot down their throat with a pistol in their gut. And fight fire with fire.

And at the end of the day, America would be reborn into the glory that she was destined to be, a nation where Every man would be a King!

* * *

**Washington D.C  
The War Department**

The War Department was a bustle of activity and paranoia. Aside from domestic concerns, the War Department as of late had devoted whole intelligence teams to the potential Civil War looming in Russia, their fragile republic still very much hanging in flux. Of course, the world's eyes were always on the borders of France and Germany. How much longer before those two behemoths went at it again in another Weltkrieg? And this time, would America be dragged into it?

The domestic disturbances too, took up a lot of the army's resources. Reports of riots breaking out in the streets, almost outright battles happening between the more militant factions of the AFP and SPA. There was no doubt both parties had sympathizers within the war department, and extra care and concern was taken when it came to guarding national secrets.

That part, at least explained the delay on his guests. They would have had to pass numerous security checkpoints and layers of bureaucracy to even gain access to this inner sanctum, where armies of personnel and intelligence analysts did their work in a maze of desks and paper. Staffers and officials shuffling between desks and switchboards carrying reports from all over the country. The air was filled with the benign ticking of switchboards and telegraphs too as more reports from as far away as Guam were collected and processed.

Yet intelligence was what he needed right now. Intelligence and the right men at the helm. Men he could trust in the coming months as the great crisis of this country approached.

"Sir, Generals Eisenhower and Bradley are here to see you." A staff officer saluted as he opened the door to his office.

Chief of Staff of the Army, General Douglas MacArthur, smiled, eager to get to the business at hand.

"Excellent, show them in."

General MacArthur extended his hand warmly as he saw his two proteges entered, holding his signature pipe in the other. The General that many had dubbed the "American Caesar" was never one to miss an opportunity for theatricality, whether the cameras were present or not. Yet perhaps, history would look back on this day as a momentous occasion. This was the first of many meetings he would have today. A necessary evil, but he needed to get things in motion now.

"Gentlemen, I'm glad you're both here. And I apologize for the numerous hoops you had to jump through here, but these are... trying times, and America could use its best and brightest now."

"Glad to see you again Sir." Bradley took the general's hand, giving a warm nod to his colleague as well who had also gathered at the war department. It had been a while since they were all at West Point, and MacArthur remembered both fondly as men of action and deliberate planning and organization, which was exactly what he needed right now.

"If you don't mind me asking Mac." This time, it was Eisenhower who spoke. "What is it that you called us here for?"

"Aside from seeing old friends again." Mac nodded, pausing slightly. "It's the political climate. I'm sure you've seen it on your way up here."

"Yes sir," Bradley remarked. "The picket lines with the Syndicalists and America Firsters."

MacArthur nodded, settling back to his desk and pointing at a map of the United States, with several red and blue pins denoting strategic points across the Midwest and South. "It's been a hell of a mess gentlemen. Daily, we've been receiving reports from all over the nation on violence breaking out between the SPA and AFP militias. Mixed in with reports from our army depots of missing supplies and ammunition. The whole thing is just waiting to blow off."

"I'll be honest Ike, Brad." MacArthur continued. "We haven't seen division like this since the days of Lincoln, and I'll bet every last dollar that this election will make things messier. We have radicals on one side, and fanatics on the other, I can't see anyone stepping down peacefully after the results of the election, whoever the winner is."

He turned to both generals.

"That's where I want you to come in. The army is in shambles right now, barely able to muster enough to garrison a city. I want us to be ready when the time comes to contain the chaos. I want you to dust off War Plan White."

"Has the president approved this?" Eisenhower asked uneasily. The Color-Code War Plans had been war plans drawn up in coordination between the Joint Army and Navy board on hypothetical war scenarios, Whether it was the Grey Plans for the Reichspakt or the Red Plans for the Entente.

The White Plans were for plans in case of domestic uprisings within America.

"The President is concerned with other matters, namely getting the politicians in line to solve our financial crisis and the Syndies." MacArthur said in disgust. "Congress and the Senate are both in a gridlock, but we have to assume the worst."

"That is always the job of a strategist isn't it." Bradley remarked wearily.

"You have a problem with this Brad?" MacArthur asked.

"Sir, I don't know how I feel about this, planning a war against our fellow Americans."

MacArthur nodded. "Grant and Lincoln probably thought the same thing eighty years ago. Believe me, I pray to god nothing happens but I'd rather prepare for something that doesn't happen than to have it blow up in our face with our pants down. We must do what we can to preserve the Union as our founding fathers had envisioned. It'll be a cold day in hell before we let the Syndies and the Longists run roughshed over this nation and its constitution."

"Sir." Was all Bradley had to say, the thought still hard to stomach, if not impossible to contemplate.

"Always thought it was best had we joined in on the Weltkrieg, maybe give the brits or krauts a good licking." MacArthur said wistfully. "Some common enemy that we can unite against and not be at each other's throats. But that isn't where we stand today."

If only that were so, having someone, something to focus all this nervous energy and tension that was infecting his beloved nation. Something to at least unify both sides of the aisle….well, nowadays, four sides of the aisles.

"Gentlemen," MacArthur said darkly. "I don't think I need to mention that only the three of us should know of these plans."

"No sir,"

"Good, now off you go. We'll reconvene again tomorrow and get started on the details. God Bless you both and God bless America."


End file.
